Borzoi Puppies
by Andriech
Summary: Yes, Chpt 5 is finally up. They may rib Chekov about his sense of humor, but when he becomes all business, his shipmates wonder how long they can endure him...and why he won't talk about it. Rating for lang in Chpt 1. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

_**Borzoi Puppies**_

Pavel Chekov stared mindlessly at the computer monitor affixed to the desk in his cabin. As he rolled the glass of a cool, dark bottle absently between his fingers, the images flashing across the screen in front of him made little impression on his consciousness.

The door chime startled him as its foul sound split the silence of the cabin. He scowled and made a disgruntled noise. Putting the opening of the bottle to his lips, he upended it and let the cool, bitter, liquid gurgle down his throat. Neither the sound on the computer nor his cabin lights were on and he wondered if could make the utterly rude person in the corridor believe he wasn't there by simply not responding.

The door chimed again. Where else would he be? He sighed. Although a friendly person, he didn't welcome drop-in visitors to the private sanctum of his cabin and anyone who felt free enough to ring the chime clearly knew he'd been spending nearly all of his off-duty time there lately. He sighed again, but it was a surly noise revolting against life's ultimate injustice.

"Come.

"What?" he continued harshly to the male figure who stepped into the darkened cabin, his form edged eerily by the light from the corridor behind him. Chekov didn't bother to expend the energy for either hospitality or scrutiny. He merely raised the bottle for another long drink.

"Lights," came the visitor's voice without a note of apology for the forwardness as he strolled further into the cabin.

Coughing in a spastic survival reflex, the Chief Navigator came up sputtering from his drink as he suddenly inhaled the liquid he should have swallowed. The bottle was back on the desk instantly, the computer monitor off, and he was rising to his feet—but the Captain waved him back down.

"This isn't ship's business, and you're off duty, Pavel." The older man's warm hazel eyes sparkled amiably. "As a matter of fact, we both are." The eyes remained steady on the younger man as he approached him. The Ensign had stripped his uniform shirt off and was barefoot, standing only in his pants and undershirt as he twirled the empty beer bottle in his hand.

"You certainly do have a good source of supplies coming to you from back home," the Captain commented.

"Keeps them busy," he answered drolly, an ice cold chill to his voice. "Would you like one?"

Kirk had no answer immediately. He was too concerned with the number of empties already littering the desk top. The young man did seem to have an enormous tolerance for alcohol, but it was also true that he didn't like getting drunk. At least it wasn't that much vodka that had been consumed, the Captain reasoned. "Yes, I'd love one," he finally answered. "I didn't realize you liked beer."

Chekov turned a dark eye on him as he passed on the way to the other room. "What the hell do you think I drink with pizza?"

The Captain's eyes remained on the conglomeration of beer bottles, tapes and trash on the top of the desk. Uhura affectionately referred to the ship's Helm Team as the Odd Couple. Chekov was so fastidious in the way he kept his quarters and belongings, the easy-going organizational style of his friend often drove him to clean Sulu's cabin in an impulsive need. Good-natured arguments had entertained the crew around them when the Helmsman had subsequently been unable to find things—important things like his boots, which had disappeared from where he had clearly left them in plain sight in the middle of the floor.

Pavel Chekov, Kirk mused, would never let a single empty bottle be set down. It belonged in the ship's recycle system. The sight of the slovenly desktop troubled Kirk: but not nearly as much as did the sight of the man's uniform shirt on the floor. The sheer disrespect for the fleet it represented wounded him. It had also not just been tossed casually in the corner behind the desk: it showed signs of having been fiercely twisted and wrung—and ultimately smashed down with the heel of the boots the man had shed. The Captain straightened with a tremulous breath.

Pacing a few feet into the sleeping area, the Kirk pointedly ignored the knotted bed covers. Sulu routinely tormented his helm partner that he never actually unmade the bed when he slept in it. His eyes came to rest, instead, on the wall across from the foot of the bed that had always fascinated him. In the central top was a large photograph of a ballerina in a flaming red costume, its tattered fabric edged in brilliant gold. Surrounding it and filling the wall were dozens of other pictures in various shapes and sizes of ballerinas. It could have been overpowering, even tacky, but what Kirk repeatedly noticed was the way the human eye was pulled around the arrangement and back up to the large picture, no matter where one looked.

The Captain smirked slightly. Pavel Chekov was no neatnik—Pavel Chekov had a strong inner eye for symmetry. This is why books out of place on a shelf irked his artist's sensibility, and it was why he was such a good navigator: the star patterns were burned into the circuitry of his brain.

"New one on the bottom left, if you're checking," the Ensign said caustically as he passed by, handing the Captain a cold beer.

"I noticed," the older man lied and took a drink out of the bottle. He took a moment to appreciate the rare taste, refusing to ruminate on the fact the beverages seemed to be kept somewhere in the bathroom. Kirk wandered back to the room divider.

"Actually, Pavel, the reason I stopped by is that I have some free time and I was hoping to get some one on one time with you."

"No," came the blunt reply.

The Captain studied the man who was standing in the middle of the room, seemingly staring into space as he drank his beer. Hazel eyes sparkling, he flashed him a wry grin. "I could order you to."

Chekov turned his head slowly and fixed his dark eyes on his Commanding Officer at this comment.

Kirk straightened, lowering his beer as he felt a chill. It was said that Russians that were raised in their traditional culture learned to communicate with their wide eyes before they learned to speak. The Captain of the Enterprise and his command team had come to expect this from Chekov—had come to count on it. The young man's chocolate brown eyes were always full of warmth, humor, and energy. When they got dark and angry, it was perhaps more humorous then.

Yet, they hadn't seen those eyes in weeks. It was the eyes the Navigator stared at his Captain with now that the command team had been facing. These eyes were dark and somber and resoundingly depthless.

"Captain James T. Kirk is going to order his Chief Navigator to play basketball?" Chekov asked darkly.

There were dozens of reasons he could, Kirk reasoned, but the man made it clear how ridiculous such an order would be for such a fine Captain. He leaned against the edge of the room divider, took a sip of beer, and then smirked to lighten the situation. "Seems to me you're just aware that the statistical probability is that the more we play, the more likely it is that I'm eventually going to win."

He flashed a full grin then. "Pavel, I deserve a chance to figure out how someone so short can manage to dunk a basketball the way you do."

Chekov made a snort of derision and turned back to stare at the wall in front of him. "I'm no midget."

"No," Kirk agreed easily. "However, certain basketball skills are not usually excelled at by men who are only 5'6." It wasn't the Navigator's height, or even dunking ability, that actually intrigued the Captain about his basketball mastery. The man's small build was actually tight and athletic, and he was remarkably quick and agile. Chekov's adroit nimbleness allowed him to easily twist and turn and dart around his opponents on the court. It always reminded the Captain that the Navigator was supposed to be a remarkable soccer player and, given the leg muscles that shorts revealed on him, Kirk believed it.

"You're only 5'9," the younger man was replying with irritation.

"And if I excelled at basketball you wouldn't keep winning, would you? I'm going the discover secret of your dunks if it's the last thing I do, Pavel."

"Ballet."

Kirk froze, the mouthful of liquid he held becoming tepid. It wasn't the revelation, not even the word itself: it was that Pavel Chekov was an extraordinarily private individual. That he would so easily reveal something so fundamentally personal spoke volumes about the unusual mood he was in. Sulu claimed it was the man's Russian nature; that only a Russian's very close friends really knew anything about them. Jim Kirk was friendly with Chekov but as far as the Navigator was concerned he didn't actually qualify as a friend.

"You took ballet?" he asked when he finally swallowed the warm beer.

"Everybody takes ballet in Russia. It's the state religion," the Navigator rasped thinly. He turned after a moment to eye the Captain. "The early grades in school require it: it's considered a prerequisite for all other athletics. It also ensures the country finds anyone with talent."

Kirk nodded understanding. "They require American football players to take it. So how talented are you?"

"I'm a principal with the Bolshoi, or haven't you noticed?"

The Captain shrugged off the mocking tone and took another sip of beer. The information definitely shed light on the young man's grace, solid grasp of his center of balance, and the power behind his leaps on the basketball court. Besides, Doctor McCoy had long claimed Chekov could do the splits.

The Navigator turned and moved further into the living area. He stood for a moment staring down the mouth of the bottle in his hand. "So are you it, then?' he asked with a sneer in his tone.

Kirk instantly stopped himself from making every response that immediately came to mind. He could easily call upon his tongue-in-cheek ego to assert that he was, in fact, 'it': but Chekov's sense of humor had left something to be desired lately.

"It?" he repeated.

Without turning, the young man upended the dark bottle he gripped again. "Yes, 'IT'," he snarled. "The last in long line of condescending souls to invade my life in a self-righteous attempt to 'fix' me. Mr. Spock alone has left me in peace.

"You can consider your appearance made and duly noted," he added curtly.

Kirk took a moment before he paced toward the young man in their yo-yo jostling of positions. He had realized Chekov was intently avoiding being in the same room as the Captain. "Pavel," he said quietly. "We're all concerned. Something's obviously wrong and we care about you."

"What you care about is losing your clown," Chekov spat out contemptuously.

The Captain started. "What?"

"Good old Chekov," the younger man sneered. "Always warm, friendly, good-natured and funny. You can count on Chekov to keep everyone entertained and laughing. Well, if that's your problem, Captain, I suggest you look elsewhere for a new ship's jester. I quit."

Kirk stared at him, wondering what he was most stunned about. It was true that Chekov was no longer his light-hearted self and that everyone was concerned, but it was hardly at the loss of his comedic place among them.

"Frankly, you were never that funny to begin with," Kirk spoke the baited jest with an all-too-serious tone. "Your skills and professionalism as a Starfleet Officer have always had the respect of everyone on this ship and if you've come to doubt that perhaps you need to speak to a medical specialist in more detail."

Chekov's face was still sour as he finished his beer. A measured two weeks ago something had changed in the young man. His jokes had become fewer, the shine of his personality paled and slowly he had faded into himself while on duty: speaking rotely only when required by his job. Off-duty he had burrowed into his cabin and stayed there.

Nothing apparent had begun this process. They'd had no missions, no duty that was remarkable and there hadn't been any interpersonal problems in his life. They hadn't even had a mail-call bringing news from home. He gave no hint of what troubled him to anyone who spoke to him.

The Navigator deliberately paced into the bedroom, turning his back on Kirk. "You said this is a personal visit?"

"Yes," the Captain replied, stepping toward him in hope that it meant Chekov, at last, felt comfortable enough to reveal something of what was bothering him.

"Good: then you know where the fucking door is."

Straightening, Kirk stared at the young man's back. What Chekov had said was true to some extent. The close-knit team his command officers had become were so successful because they were almost a family. The Navigator played the youngest brother, the clown that eased tension in that dynamic, and it was as necessary as Spock's dour father role.

If Chekov wanted to throw himself into a surly pout—for whatever reason—than he was right: it was his prerogative. This new personality may not have a place in the _Enterprise_'s family, however. The Captain considered the man who stood poised at the end of the bed, swinging the empty bottle from his fingertips, obviously waiting to hear that the Captain had left. Maybe what the 'younger brother' needed wasn't concern, after all. Maybe what he needed was a swift kick in the butt.

"Someone once told me," Kirk stated flatly. "That Russian's may be many things, but they are never rude."

The bottle stopped swinging and Chekov twisted his head back, bringing his eyes to rest on Kirk. He could make you laugh with a single look, bring pity rushing forth or, with a darker gaze frighten a person into immobility. Now, however, those same eyes were completely devoid of life. Utterly depthless, their dark orbs seemed to absorb the light. He turned his body then and deliberately sauntered over to the Captain, stopping so close Kirk could feel his body heat.

"Who the fuck told you I was Russian?"

"Well, you..." Kirk began, but then froze. Chekov was clearly attempting to intimidate the senior officer and Kirk was impressed...because it was working.

There was a glint in the man's dark eyes, but it wasn't amusement, and it wasn't kind. "Who," he demanded in a roar, eyes raking his commanding officer. "Who did I ever tell I was Russian?"

The Captain realized the man was right. The younger man may have touted Russia's achievements, but he never had, in fact, claimed to be Russian. The Captain carefully raised the bottle to his mouth and took a drink before he continued. "You were born in the Russian Federation."

"No," the man answered sullenly. "I was not."

Kirk ignored the attempt to shock him and continued with the logic problem presented him. "You have a Russian accent, Pavel."

"Do I now?" Chekov answered in perfect English.

Pursing his lips momentarily, Kirk said: "You don't have an accent."

"No shit. My mother's a teacher," the Navigator said in the same pure tenor voice as before. The man enunciated the English language better than Kirk. "Do you think she's that bad a teacher? Fuck, if she heard the way I speak here, she'd drop dead from some kind of aneurism."

Kirk twisted the neck of the bottle in his hand. He doubted the younger man's mother would be impressed with his obvious and unexpected command of English vulgarity."Than why…"

"Because it's what you all want," Chekov sneered, his accent back. "Cute, funny…

"I do hold citizenship in The Independent States of the Russian Federation," he finally added in a mutter of acquiescence, although his tone was no more respectful.

The Captain watched the sour emotions play over the young man's usually happy and innocent face. One couldn't discount the Navigator's gregarious nature, but his friendliness only existed to the point of where one actually encountered the man within. There was a wall there behind which the shadowed presence could only glimpsed on the rarest of occasions by most people around him. The number of people he actually let in behind the barrier were few.

"Pavel, you never told any of us this," he said quietly. _Just like you're shutting us all out now._

Chekov stared down the mouth of the beer bottle. "You never asked," he bit out angrily.

Kirk blinked, straightening as he studied the self-righteous young man before him. He moved up and placed a hand on the Navigator's shoulder. The muscles, rock hard with stress, winced instantly at the touch. "Human beings aren't telepathic, Mister. If you need something from them, you need to tell them: and you need to accept what they give you, because we none of us make it through life alone."

Chekov dropped onto the end of the bed as the door slid shut behind the Captain. Letting the bottle slip from his fingers, he took pleasure in the tinny thud that filled the small room as it hit the floor.

Sulu came strolling casually into the room from their shared bathroom then. "Are you going to join us for Monopoly tonight, Pavel?" he asked, jabbing his thumb back in the direction of his own cabin. "Good old capitalist decadence," he teased hopefully.

"So how long were you listening?"

The Helmsman shifted. "Cabin bulkheads aren't very thick."

"I wouldn't count on me continuing to be part of the bridge crew much longer," the younger man muttered.

Pursing his lips, Sulu shook his head slowly. "You certainly seemed to do your best to ensure that. You even told the man you weren't Russian," he observed with a subtle note of amazement. The Lieutenant knew the statement to be half true—at least in a technical, ethnic sense, but it was the way Chekov had used the information that bothered him.

"Pavel," he continued with a sigh, gesturing briefly with his hands. "What is it that you are so intent on punishing yourself for?" He'd been the man's best friend since they'd roomed together at the Academy and he knew even the worst of Chekov's pouting fits had a deeper purpose. A person with a Russian soul lived very few days of his life without feeling he'd done something wrong, and if he found it he wasn't satisfied until well tortured for it.

"This is...beyond acceptable. You're punishing everyone else too. What's so bad that you feel the need to push everyone away, including me?" It wasn't the first time the Helmsman had made the observation in recent weeks. With the Captain's efforts, perhaps he was hoping his friend would finally feel ready to share his misery.

"Go fuck yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

Chekov knew why he liked coming here. These labs were an oasis: a refuge from the teaming world around them. There were no expectations here: no one expected him to be funny; no one expected him to good-natured; no one expected him to be happy; no one even expected him to share the littlest part of his life with them.

The only thing anyone expected of him here was that he do his work. He found it strangely comforting on a basic level.

The Navigator reached out and adjusted the display on the computer screen in front of him. He wasn't working on what was displayed there, wasn't even reading it: but the image was slightly eschewed and it was annoying him. He entwined his fingers again and went back to his silent, slumped reverie. The eerie light cast off by the screen etched dramatic, horrifying shadows across his face in the dark room.

The corner of Chekov's lip edged up slightly in rueful acknowledgment when he heard the door swish open and close on the other side of the room. The man's predictability was downright cathartic. He felt the presence settle into a dispassionate stance behind him. The Navigator said nothing.

"Will the lights disturb your work, Ensign?"

"Not hardly, Sir."

"Lights."

"Mr. Chekov, you have not entered into the data review database, nor have you initiated further research."

"Didn't feel like working, Sir."

The man moved then to stand beside Chekov's seated form. "Than your presence in the Science Labs has another purpose this evening, Ensign."

Spock was a genius, thought Chekov. Pitifully enough, he had known that if he activated the research station the Science Officer would appear to discern why Chekov was working on their current project without notifying him. "That's a logical conclusion," is what he said aloud.

"To expect anything else would be..."

"Illogical."

"Unintelligent."

This time, the slight smile traced all the way across Chekov's lips. "Point conceded."

Silence took hold again and, although it dragged on, it didn't seem odd. The Science Officer finally shifted his position slightly: cocking his head to eye the Navigator. "Ensign, you are troubled about your father," he stated.

Chekov glanced at Spock for the first time. His dark eyes had a sharp, accusatory glint in them.

"Your telepathic block is intact," the Science Officer assured him with a flat tone. "I find your father's image clearly present in this room, however. The only logical reason for such a lapse on your part is that you are concerned about him."

"Of course it is." The Navigator turned his gaze back, unseeing, to the computer screen.

Humans–all of them–were born with some amount of telepathic ability. At the very least they could sense the moods of those around them if they paid attention. A rare few could be compared to the most skillful Vulcan. That's why Starfleet Academy required every one of its cadets to be tested for their telepathic rating, no matter their planet of origin or ethic group.

With Chekov, what they had discovered was that he could not be tested.

Which meant he had at least enough ability to block their tests...and not the control, nor the desire, to allow them. It was enough for Starfleet to deduce that Pavel Chekov was in very low danger of ever being hypnotized, brainwashed, or the subject of anything but a violently forced mindmeld. Which was the only information Starfleet was interested in when they tested their cadets to begin with.

The Navigator knew that his telepathic block made him a perfect assistant for the Vulcan's personal research projects. Certainly Chekov had the keen mind, scientific aptitude, intense curiosity, driving work ethic and unreasonable need for perfectionism that were the ship's Science Officer requirements for anyone coming near his research. What Chekov didn't have was the random thoughts that most humans projected into the room around them like so much flying confetti. It was a constant irritant that true telepaths had to train themselves to block out for their own sanity.

For whatever reason that Chekov instinctively protected his mind, he didn't project his thoughts beyond the barrier he'd constructed either, except in the rarest of cases. Or at least that was what Spock had told him. Frankly, the young man thought the idea that he had any telepathic ability was simply a load of crap they had put in his record to cover up the Academy examiners' miserable failure in testing him.

Except...he knew something about Spock which the Navigator was sure wasn't meant to be known by anyone. Chekov could instinctively feel it when they were near each other; could sense with a solid grasp of reality that could only come from some odd telepathic ability. Commander Spock had feelings.

Well, all Vulcans had feelings, Chekov reasoned. It was the sheer intensity of their passionate emotions that had caused them as a race to reign them in with logic before they caused the wholesale destruction of their people. Chekov knew the Enterprise's logical First Officer, however, allowed himself those rare, subtle feelings on occasion. Barely a feeling for a human: but for a Vulcan even such indulgences in subtle emotions were earth-shattering.

Chekov always knew how Spock was feeling–well, when he was, of course. When they were alone doing research in the private sanctuary of the Science Labs what he often sensed from the calm Vulcan was relief. He doubted anyone really understood how much effort it took for the man to work constantly with other races whose nuisance thoughts were always around them. Which, the Navigator had deduced, was the logical reason the First Officer allowed himself to feel relieved on occasion when he was finally away from them.

Although Chekov knew that private meditation could bring Spock the quiet his mind needed, he also knew even Vulcans did not consider such solitude a priority. Clean, clear research work with another person whose presence did not necessitate the mental distraction of ignoring their thoughts was what Spock often required. The Science Officer could count on the Ensign's presence when he needed it. Just as Chekov could count on Spock to appear at the rare times when he admitted he needed to see the older man.

The Science Officer turned the chair that was beside Chekov and bent his form into it. "The logical conclusion to be made from your father being so evident in your mind is that your recent sulking is due to a preoccupation with him, Ensign. Is this correct?"

Chekov only nodded dismally. His gut response was to declare that he hadn't been sulking, but maintaining such a thing to Spock would have been an effort in futility. Especially since the man had actually used the word 'sulking' instead of 'emotional distress'.

"In addition, since you have chosen to report here with no intention of conducting further research, logic dictates that your purpose here is for another reason."

Making a sour face, the younger man rolled his dark eyes. "Why don't you just say I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Spock?"

An elegant eyebrow raising, the Commander straightened with what could almost have passed for indignation. "I believe I did, Ensign."

The slightest of smiles traced over Chekov's lips. "Of course you did, Sir."

"In what way may I be of service, Mr. Chekov?"

Sighing miserably, the Navigator picked at some non-existent speck of dust on his pants. "Mr. Spock, do all problems have a logical solution?"

"Yes."

Chuckling at the man's simplicity, the younger man almost smiled again. "Well, then my mind is nowhere near disciplined enough because I don't see it. I guess I need to work on teaching my mind to think like a Vulcan."

"Ensign, you have a very organized mind for a human. To strive to be something you are not is not logical."

Chekov let his eyes close and sank further into the chair. _Well, then it sucks to be human._

He knew Spock heard the thought because he felt him fold his arms across his chest in disapproval. "This conversation would be more productive at a time when you are thinking clearer, Mr. Chekov."

"Mr. Spock," he drawled without opening his eyes. "Are you accusing me of being drunk?"

The Science Officer did not answer for a moment. "Ensign, you reek," is what he finally said.

The Vulcan got the smile out of him that no one else had been able to. "I do," he agreed and, opening his eyes, cast a glance over at the older man. "Something to be considered in the future when choosing between vodka and beer." He pushed himself up to a more appropriate position in the chair. "Of course, the degree of inebriation each beverage incurs is the most logical consideration in making the choice between them.

"I'm not drunk, Sir," he concluded. "Just...impaired."

"Than we must strive to prevent the ship from requiring a red alert status."

"We certainly must," Chekov agreed firmly.

Spock ignored his thinly disguised humor. "Which problem are you finding it difficult to answer with logic, Ensign?"

The Navigator sighed dismally again, chewing on his lip for a long moment. He would have gone on that way but knew Spock was going to make a snide...logical...comment about the futility of his behavior.

"When I was young," he explained, "I did something that I shouldn't have. I thought I was amazingly clever at the time and was very proud of myself." Chekov pulled his troubled eyes over to look at the First Officer with difficulty. "Cocky people pay for the shit they pull. It's come back to bite me in the ass."

"I cannot assist you if you insist on relying on otherwise useless emotional metaphors to communicate."

"I said everything a person does has consequences, even when they are delayed by a long passage of time."

Spock stared at Chekov in consideration for a moment. "I did not deduce that meaning from your previous outburst."

_Outburst?_ Chekov thought wryly. _That was an outburst? To Spock, of course it was. _"Forgive me for my emotional lapse, Sir."

The Science Officer nodded slowly and lowered his hands to his lap. "It would be more effective if you refrain from doing so again, Ensign."

"I will attempt to accommodate you."

"Mr. Chekov, that would be greatly appreciated."

"No problemo." He looked away quickly, smiling again as both of the First Officer's eyebrows shot up. The Navigator knew that his feeling at ease enough to smile after all these weeks when in the non-emotional Vulcan's presence could be the stuff of psychological discourses for years to come. He cleared his throat and looked back after a moment. "I'm a little...impaired, Sir," Chekov reminded him by way of apology for both his tone and words.

"I have so noted, Ensign. I will attempt to make allowances: as is often necessary when dealing with humans."

"Thank-you, Mr. Spock."

"Is it what you did as a child or the action's consequences that is currently troubling you, Mr. Chekov?"

"Is there a way of separating them?" he asked curiously. "I was 12," Chekov added as an afterthought. "Not really a child, I suppose."

"Do you wish to engage in a philosophical discussion or receive assistance in resolving an issue?" the older man asked abruptly.

The Navigator smiled slightly again. _If you want to get yelled at effectively, Mr. Spock is the one to do it. He reminds me of my father._

"What I did was no childhood prank and it has been discovered by the government. They don't know it was me. It is my father that is facing the consequences of my actions."

He stopped then. Anyone else would have goaded him on, but Spock merely waited. Chekov didn't know what was easier to deal with. He shook his head dismally. "The solution seems easy: I should just confess and take responsibility for what I did."

The First Officer nodded solemnly, but his eyes narrowed in interest. "If such a choice were 'easy' you would not be so obviously troubled, Mr. Chekov."

"So true," he answered a bit too flippantly.

"Such a choice would have an impact on your Starfleet career, would it not?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But that's not even a consideration. Mr. Spock, if I come forward with what I did than it will ultimately reveal things about the government of the Russian Federation that will make it look exceptionally bad to the entire universe."

The Science Officer considered the problem in silence for a moment. "Ensign," he drew out finally. "At this point, I am prompted to remind you of the childhood history game which you were fond of playing and which you have shared with certain members of the crew."

Chekov eyed Spock, scowling in confusion. "Game, Sir?"

"Indeed. If I recall correctly the main version is called 'Tsar'."

"Oh...yes," the younger man conceded. "The men that work for my father made it up for me."

Spock nodded in agreement. "If I recall accurately, during the course of play the competitors are challenged with negative history facts concerning the country of Russia. One must counter with positive events in the same field to gain points and advance."

"They made me versions for every Terran country," Chekov tried to divert him. "My mother believes interactive learning is more effective."

The Science Officer didn't respond. It wasn't the first time in his experience that Chekov wished he would. Uhura had embarrassed him by realizing there was no rule in the game against making up positive facts. Unlike Scrabble, there was no way to verify them easily and no one who designed it had thought it was a necessary option. Until they started playing it with Pavel.

Spock hadn't brought up the game to embarrass the Navigator with how he had picked up personality quirks, however. Chekov understood exactly what the Science Officer was attempting to remind him of. He sighed and shrugged dismally in agreement with the older man. "Russia has certainly had more than its share of horrible things its governments have done during its history: there's no denying it. When they've been revealed the country has managed to weather it and the Russian Federation is now a respected and strong country in the United Earth Alliance," he conceded.

"The Russian Federation's mistakes are not unique: in fact, they are common in the history of the Earth's nations."

Chekov's hands tightened into fists of frustration as his lips pressed hard against themselves. "Governments are different now," he insisted darkly. "This is the 23rd century. They're supposed to...pay attention. And this time, it's different, Sir."

"Because you will have caused their folly to be revealed," the First Officer surmised with sharp honesty. "That concern relies on an extraordinarily presumptive ego, Mr. Chekov."

The young man pushed himself fully up in the chair, staring at Spock. He realized that is what he'd been thinking, but it wasn't truly what bothered him. Chekov wasn't sure it could be explained...especially to someone for whom emotion was an illogical consideration.

"Sir," he began carefully. "That what I did went unnoticed for so long is embarrassing for the government. What they did to inspire my actions, however, is downright...humiliating." Chekov's voice faltered and he winced: struggling to continue. "It's every Russian citizen who's going to have to live with that humiliation, Mr. Spock. It's enough that a few of us are mortified by their actions...it's simply not acceptable to publicize such a thing and burden everyone with that guilt."

Spock considered him tolerantly. "I do not understand why any citizen would feel responsibility for a government's specific actions if they had no actual part of such action."

"You..." _wouldn't_. Chekov managed to choke down his instant, vile reaction. "It's a hum...Russian thing," he finally said tightly. "It's unacceptable to broadcast such information and we...don't do such things to our people."

The Science Officer didn't respond immediately. He didn't need to: Chekov knew what he was thinking. It was what any sane man would be thinking. Such an attitude was vulgar and primitive: downright barbaric. Such an attitude wasn't unique to Russia in the past, and it was responsible for massive amounts of Earth's worst history. They had moved beyond that.

"Your nationalism is clouding your thinking, Ensign," was what Spock finally observed.

"I am not nationalistic," Chekov retorted, both the alcohol and indignation slurring his words. "I'm patriotic."

"Nationalism..."

"Is the hatred of other nations. Patriotism is the love of your own. There's a big difference."

Spock pressed his lips together. "Despite my error in semantics, Mr. Chekov, your concern for a political body's dignity is both illogical and ill-placed."

The Navigator sighed tiredly, letting his eyes slip closed again. He blinked them open quickly when the room began moving in alarming patterns. "Sir, for some people in Russia their governing body's actions are a still a reflection on them," he managed tonelessly.

"Illogical."

"I'm sure it is."

The First Officer's gaze remained steady, unblinking on the younger man. "Ensign," he informed him patiently after a moment. "If taking responsibility for your actions will result in outcomes that are unacceptable to you, than you must consider what options you have which do not involve your taking responsibility for your actions."

Chekov nodded somberly. "If I don't come forward than my father..." His voice broke off and he remained silent a long moment. "It's very bad, Sir."

"Since the outcome of your choice appears to affect your father's life, it would be logical to seek his counsel in this matter."

"Yup, it would."

Chekov saw Spock's raised eyebrow on the edge of his peripheral vision. He had to admit, the older man was displaying an enormous degree of tolerance for the Navigator's lack of sobriety. He swallowed with difficulty. "Mr. Spock, my father is currently not available to be communicated with."

Sitting there with the Science Officer's unblinking stare on him, Chekov had the unreasonable thought that the man actually attempted to read his thoughts on such occasions. _Boy, I am impaired_, he chastised himself as he stirred in his seat. _Spock just won't do the decent thing and jump to conclusions. _

"My father's in jail, Mr. Spock."

The Commander didn't act as if it was unexpected information, but he folded his arms across his chest in a sure sign that he was tiring of being tolerant. "Andrie Chekov's incarceration would not prohibit his communication with you," he intoned. "If you are unable to obtain the clearances, I can be of assistance."

The snort burst out of the Navigator before he could stop it. Straightening again, he cleared his throat by way of apology. He still groaned melodramatically when he tried to answer. "Spock, it ain't that kind of jail."

The Vulcan's obvious scowl prompted Chekov to look over at him finally. He winced in another apology. "This isn't about a petty crime, Sir. My father is in isolation and is prohibited from communication with anyone at this point in time."

"That is contrary to Federation law, Ensign."

Chekov stilled and raised dark, depthless eyes to meet the older man's steady gaze. "Not in this case, Mr. Spock. And the penalties still required are..." _unthinkable..._

"If you take action," the Commander surmised. "The consequences for the government and peoples of the Russian Federation are unacceptable. If you fail to take action, the consequences Andrie Chekov faces are unacceptable. In each case, what are the consequences that you personally face?"

"Not a mitigating factor." He shrugged slightly at the older man's level stare. "The same either way, Sir." _My Starfleet career is over... _The young man's gaze didn't move from the First Officer's eyes. "I told you there was no logical solution to this problem."

Spock's lips drew into a fine line again. After a moment, he lowered his hands and stood up from the chair. "Mr. Chekov, you are basing your conclusion on a faulty axiom."

"What's that, Sir?" he asked, lines of confusion skirting out from his eyes.

"That the logical solution has a pleasant outcome.

"In addition, Mr. Chekov," Spock added, pausing as he turned to leave. "It is my experience that you routinely overestimate both the seriousness and consequences of your actions. It would be advisable that you spend time reevaluating your entire line of reasoning.

"Without the aide of alcohol."


	3. Chapter 3

"Lay off, Bones."

"I just said it was very equitable of you."

"Being a captain doesn't preclude a man from getting his own dinner!" Kirk spat out, striding toward an empty table with a purposeful step.

"Your poor Yeoman isn't going to know what to do with herself," McCoy said worriedly as he followed.

"Find another topic," the Captain advised as he set his tray down. "Or another dinner companion."

The Doctor sighed in a melodramatic show of resignation. He took the seat next to Kirk and began moving his dinner dishes onto the table from his tray. "It looks like people think the spaghetti is going to finally lure our Russian Officer out of hibernation," he observed.

Kirk's eyes shifted to the milling group of officers and crewman that were gathered at the opposite end of the main dining hall. Despite the incongruous diversity of the departments they came from, the group had nonetheless become a common sight aboard the ship. Every one of them was a citizen of the Russian Federation back on Earth.

"I'm sure they're just concerned about Chekov," the Captain said dismissively.

"It's more than that and you know it. Has it occurred to you what effect losing our Russian Officer is having on the morale of this ship?"

"Bones, I've told you a thousand times to stop calling Chekov that," the Captain said irritably. "We don't have a 'Russian Officer' anymore than we have a 'French Officer' or 'American Officer.' "

"Well, maybe you should consider it," McCoy urged. "We have a rotating 'Morale Officer' designation. It's the same principle."

A smirk tugged at Kirk's lips. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you're Morale Officer this month, would it?"

"No," the older man retorted with a note of indignation. "Those people from the Russian Federation have come to rely on our Navigator to keep them in touch with each other and their heritage: their roots back home."

The Captain took the time to wrestle the writhing mass of pasta on the fork into his mouth. "He did seem to be their mascot."

"That's not fair, Jim."

Only Kirk's mouthful of food disguised the smile that the Doctor's defensive tone brought.

"Chekov is a natural leader and his uniting that group who share a common cultural bond and background is no less than a stroke of diplomatic genius," McCoy insisted. "They have a forum to talk about shared childhood experiences, passionately debate literature, philosophy..."

"Drink vodka, eat caviar," the Captain supplied helpfully.

The Doctor gave him an impatient scowl. "Do you know what a shot in the arm it is to just be able to chat in the language your brain thinks? Our modern society and Fleet may have common ground as their driving principle, Jim, but it's our _diversity_ which makes us strong."

"Bones, philosophy and meatballs?" Kirk mused with amusement as he dragged a napkin across his lips. He knew, of course, that McCoy was right–as was usually the case when it came to the crew. The Captain, however, also recognized something unsettling in his Navigator's relationship to the other Russian citizens on board. They were drawn to the young man, universally pulled by some strange force and they let no new Russian crewman come aboard without being shuffled immediately before him for formal welcoming and initiation into their group.

Kirk had the vague feeling that a sect loyal to a separate entity than either he or the Fleet was festering, unchecked, on his ship. The unflappable devotion they showed their unappointed leader was a wound in the wider shipboard community and it held promise for serious ramifications. He dropped his napkin in his lap. "Doctor," he intoned carefully. "When you join the Fleet you swear to give up all your old allegiances. Fostering our differences can be a dangerous thing: our history has demonstrated repeatedly that it's like having a poisonous snake as a house pet."

"I won't agree with you," McCoy pronounced with a deliberate, forceful shake of his head that he punctuated with a gesture of his fork. "I've seen the energy they come away with after just touching base with each other. Tell me that you honestly wouldn't be thankful for a good old, all out, fourth of July blast. Hot dogs, hamburgs, potato chips, corn on the cob..."

"I'm just thankful for the spaghetti at the moment, Bones."

"I'm not advising you to schism the crew into nationalities, Jim," the Doctor insisted, refusing to let the topic die. "I'm just saying you should consider that the things we share uniquely with others can give us strength. Chekov keeps those people informed of what's going on back home and never lets a Russian holiday pass by unacknowledged."

Kirk allowed himself an outright, rueful, grin this time as he stirred the cream into his coffee. "Like the day honoring apples? Bones, I think he makes up half those holidays. The man just likes parties."

"Jim..."

"Bones..." the Captain began to redirect, but suddenly stopped, his cup of coffee hovering in mid-air. "That's it!" he pronounced with certainty as he glanced quickly at the Doctor. "That's what's been bothering Chekov!"

A line etching across his forehead, McCoy eyed him warily. "What–we failed to pay proper tribute to apples this year?"

"No," Kirk said, setting down his cup with a sharp finality. "We've been looking in the wrong place entirely for what's been causing his foul mood. It's not on the ship, it's back home."

The Doctor hesitated, shifting his jaw. "Are you saying that something happened back in Russia?"

"Yes. That's why they're here," the Captain concluded as he indicated the group of Russian citizens. "Chekov does keep them up to date with what's going on back home, but when they get together, they don't just debate the meaning of life–they hash out differences of opinion about current events." Which is why Kirk hadn't done anything about the existence of the seemingly separatist group yet. Political happenings back home could quickly erupt passionate opinions into a near war among national groups that were impotently removed from the events. That dangerous possibility in the contained quarters of a starship had to be in the forefront of any captain's mind, and Kirk knew of one otherwise competent commander who had ended his career by simply not allowing any news to come into his ship.

While such censorship was an affront to Kirk's modern sensibilities, as a captain he fully understood the kind of conditions that had inspired it. It was an unsettling reminder today. The hushed, earnest tones of the group as they spoke reinforced what the Captain knew to be their deference to Chekov and his natural mediating skills, but their willingness to wait for him to discuss the matter said something else to Kirk about the seriousness of the situation.

McCoy was shaking his head. "There hasn't been news about anything remarkable–or even interesting–going on _anywhere _back on Earth and we haven't had a mail delivery in a month. Jim, it's a little farfetched to believe even Chekov spent a few weeks stewing over something before he got upset about it."

"True," the Captain nodded agreement as he gestured for Uhura and Scotty to join them from the serving station they were leaving. "But we both know Chekov doesn't rely on ordinary channels for his information.

"Seems like the spaghetti has lured everyone to the main dining room," he continued with a smile when the other two officers joined them with their trays of food.

Uhura smiled conspiratorially as she took a seat. "It takes a rare treat for me to get Scotty away from his technical journals."

"The new technical journals may save your life tomorrow, lass," the Chief Engineer insisted.

"I'd rather have your company today," Uhura said, shooing him into a seated position. "Besides," she said, winking Kirk. "I think you just like reading your own articles, Scotty."

She received an outlandish glare from the Engineer in response.

The Captain waited for her light-hearted laughter to settle before addressing her again. "Uhura, has Mr. Chekov received any private communications in the last month?"

She hesitated in arranging her plates on the table. "Sir," the Communication's Officer answered carefully without looking at Kirk. "As you know, we have to note the specifics of every communication contact in our daily logs for your review. There are exceptions, such as the encrypted traffic that comes in on the Platinum Channels. Security regulations by and large restrict us to noting the time of any contact on the Platinum Channels; not the length, origin or receiver of such messages."

Uhura's dark eyes shifted and held the Captain's. "No matter how often they're getting them, Sir."

Kirk squared his shoulder's perceptibly. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he acknowledged quietly after a moment, then shifted his eyes to the Doctor. "I should have thought to look for that kind of traffic as soon as Chekov got surly, Bones. He's known something the other Russians have just found out."

"The Platinum Channels are restricted to government use, and eyes-only stuff at that," Scott insisted as he attacked his pasta with both a knife and a fork. "Even Starfleet doesn't use them. Now why would the lad be getting messages on one of them?"

"His father works for the Russian government," Uhura reminded him. "Chekov said both his parent's have government jobs."

Scotty lowered the forkful of food he was about to eat. "Nae, his father wanders about writing down children's stories and square dancing and such."

"He does," the woman agreed with an affectionate pat on his arm. "Andrie catalogs folk tales, folk songs and folk dances: both his parents do. They're cultural anthropologists–folklorists by specialty, but they work for the government."

"I thought Chekov said his mother was a teacher," the Engineer protested with an annoyed scowl.

"She is. But she...they're both...anthropologists...for the government. It's all very confusing," she admitted finally.

Kirk felt the clandestine nature of the Doctor's glance at him without even seeing it directly. They both knew the confusion about what Chekov's parents did for a living was by the young man's deliberate design, but it wasn't something either of them were at liberty to discuss.

"Italian food does have remarkable drawing powers," the Captain observed aloud as he watched Sulu enter the room with Chekov in tow. Almost physically in tow. The kitchen's fresh food offering of spaghetti and meatballs might have served as an incentive, but it was clear that the younger man's presence was due mainly to the Helmsman having dragged him there.

A quick shift of Kirk's eyes confirmed by their reaction that the group of Russian citizens had, in fact, been hoping to see Chekov. The Captain turned his attention back to his rapidly cooling coffee and watched as the ship's alpha watch helm team approached his table. It somewhat surprised Kirk; although it was abundantly clear that Chekov was none too happy by Sulu's choice of dinner companions for them.

"Good evening everyone," the Helmsman said brightly as he took a seat opposite McCoy. This left the only available chair in front of the Captain and Chekov showed noticeable restraint as he took it. Given his mood lately, Kirk half expected the Chief Navigator to simply walk off and sit alone.

"I'm glad you've joined us, lad," the ship's Chief Engineer commented amiably. "It's been quite a spell since we've all been together."

Chekov's fork tines clanged against his plate as he jammed them into one of his meatballs. "We are together every alpha watch duty shift," he replied tightly.

"Now, that's not what I meant!"

"He knows that," McCoy's said. "Chekov," he advised in a fatherly tone. "Lighten up."

The Ensign hesitated just long enough to glare at him, which left the ship's chief surgeon completely unaffected.

While the exchange of awkward pleasantries continued, Kirk focused his attention on his coffee and watched as the group of Russians approached their table. A tall, beefy Lieutenant from ship's services was the one who broke off from the group to speak.

"Mr. Chekov?" He waited a prolonged period of silence before addressing the Ensign again. "Mr. Chekov?"

"I'm eating, Mr. Avdevyev," the Navigator responded tersely without looking up from his food.

"Yes, Sir," the man who had apparently been appointed the group's spokesman replied deferentially. "We don't want to disturb you, but we wanted you to know..." He broke off, hesitating, as his eyes shifted uncertainly to Chekov's dinner companions.

A member of the ship's maintenance staff standing behind him jabbed him hard in the ribs. Avdevyev slapped the man's hand away irritably, and he apparently decided to continue despite the presence of Kirk and the others. "Sir, we just wanted to assure you that we know that what they're saying about your father isn't true. It's simply political posturing–someone is trying to make a name for themselves using him and it's going to be exposed as the complete and utter nonsense it is."

Chekov made no movement but the fork in his hand dipped forward, bending in half in surreal slow motion.

"In the meantime, if there's anything you need," Lt. Avdevyev continued. "If there's anything at all we can do for you, just let us know."

Chekov lurched to his feet, the chair slamming backward into the deck as he spun on the group and let loose a vile, snarling tirade into Avdevyev's face. It didn't matter that Chekov stood a full seven inches shorter than the older man: his ferocious verbal attack held the man–and everyone else in the room–frozen. Kirk didn't know what Chekov was saying , but he understood clearly the anger in his voice. The Captain was half out of his seat when the Ensign made a feigned backhand at Avdevyev and then stormed out of the room.

"There's a _reason_ I eat in my quarters," Scott declared.

"What was that about?" Kirk asked Uhura as he reseated himself.

She only shook her head in apology at everyone who was looking to her for a translation: including the group of Russians still standing there. "I don't know what he said," the Communications Officer explained. "I'm not familiar with the language he was speaking. It wasn't Russian. Captain, it wasn't even from the Slavic language tree."

"He said 'If you want to do something for me you can leave me alone'," Sulu said blandly as he continued eating. In fact, he was the only person in the room who hadn't stopped. "I suggest you do it."

"You understood that language?" Uhura asked.

The Helmsman finally stopped eating for a moment to cast her a dim look. "I don't need to understand the words to know what he said."

"What the blazes is going on with Chekov's father?" McCoy demanded. Although the question was directed at Avdevyev, it was answered by the Head Nurse, who had just entered the room and joined them hurriedly.

"Chekov's father has been arrested by the Russian government," Chapel said in a rush. "I wasn't sure it was his father at first, but the man's name _is _Andrie and in all the footage..." her voice had a note of dismay as it trailed off. She finished quietly: "It's on _all _the channels: news, broadcast: special alerts are even going out over all the private channels."

"It wasn't Chekov's father," Sulu assured her with a chuckle. "No one's going to arrest Andrie: the man's a national hero."

Kirk glanced over at him sharply. The Helmsman caught the look and shifted uncomfortably. Sulu's verbal assertion was a clear violation of the trust his best friend had placed in him and spoke volumes as to how unnerved he actually was by the news. What the Captain knew was that if Andrie Chekov had, indeed, been arrested than any hope Pavel ever had to maintain his private life behind the sanctum of his precious wall–even on this remote, deepspace starship–was utterly gone.

"Andrie Nikolaievich has been charged with high treason against the peoples of the Russian Federation," Avdevyev said tersely. "They claim he's been embezzling government funds. It's not true."

"Embezzling?" the Helmsman blurted out incredulously, dropping his fork on the table. He laughed. "Of course it's not true. Why do they even spread such nonsense before they've checked to see if there's even the slightest facts to back it up?"

"Sulu," Chapel asserted. "According to the news reports they detained Andrie several weeks ago and didn't charge him or release the information about the case while the investigators conducted their initial review. They say they have proof he's been embezzling funds–which qualifies as stealing them from the Russian people."

Sulu stood up, twisting his gaze around to face everyone at once and looked like he was ready to take on the world. "We're talking actual monetary funds here, right? That's simply not something Andrie would do."

There was a terse silence in the room; a barely audible murmur at its depths as people shifted uncomfortably. Everyone on the ship knew Sulu has grown so close to the Chief Navigator's father that he actually called him "Papa" himself.

"Sulu," the Head Nurse explained, "They found it during a Class One Audit of the Russian Federation government accounts conducted by the United Earth Alliance. The full Class One Audits aren't done very often and in this case..." Chapel pulled herself up to her full height and steadied herself visibly by placing a hand on her stomach. "According to UEA auditors, Andrie has been secretly diverting government funds into blind accounts on a weekly basis for a least ten years. It's billions of credits."

Sulu's dark eyes grew somber, his jaw tightening. "How is that even possible?"

"It was done by someone very good with computers," Avdevyev said. "According to news reports, government funds are being diverted routinely. They can see that the funds' transfer is initiated properly, but then the tracking information is severed in a blind, clean end. Whoever set this up left no trace of themselves or what they did. It's such an expert job the funds simply seem to be going nowhere."

The color washed visibly out of the Helmsman's face. "No," he said in a cracked voice. In silence, he began shaking his head determinedly, then pronounced: "Andrie did not do this.

"Excuse me."

"No wonder Chekov has been so upset," Uhura remarked as she watched the Helmsman's form vanish into the corridor. She stood. "Sulu's going to want to talk to Andrie. I should go make sure the call goes through as quickly as possible."

"He can't talk to Andrie," the Captain stated with surely. "Even Chekov can't talk to him. Treason is a crime of conspiracy," he explained in a neutral tone. "They isolate you to make sure you can't get hold of your compatriots: for obvious reasons.

"They'll lift the communication's block eventually," Uhura asserted.

"Yes," Kirk agreed. "Let me know when that happens. Excuse me," he added as he stood and made his way out of the room, quickly and deliberately striding down the corridor. He understood far more than he wanted to about what had been happening for the last two weeks.


	4. Chapter 4

"Bistro."

Unnerved by the odd summons in Russian to enter, Chekov stepped into the cabin hesitantly. "You knew it was me," he stated when Spock appeared from within the sleeping area, a data padd in his hand.

"Stating the obvious is unnecessary, Ensign."

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "I've never been to your cabin before, Sir. I would have thought it would at least be unexpected."

The First Officer titled his head slightly. "You have never felt the need to hide before, Ensign."

"I..." Chekov started, then straightened indignantly. "I am not hiding," he retorted. "It just seemed stupid to sit in the empty science labs waiting for you to come talk to me."

"Certainly more time consuming," Spock agreed. "However, that option does afford _me_ the choice of not speaking to you at all."

The Navigator blinked, sudden irritation flaring in his dark eyes. "If you don't want to see me, you just had to say so, Sir."

"Ensign, sit down," came the calm order from the First Officer as he turned back toward the other room. "There is tea on the desk for you, as well as some tea biscuits. I know that you prefer strong black tea but I do not know your choice of sweeteners. Sugar will need to suffice on this occasion."

A quick glance told Chekov that the desk was, in fact, set as the Vulcan had described. He stood uncertainly a long moment. The obvious preparation for a visit that wasn't planned was unsettling. Finally, he forced himself over to the desk and bent stiffly into the chair there. "You _were_ expecting me," he maintained, not even trying to keep the note of accusation out of his voice.

Spock was still in the room, but his back was to the Ensign and he was writing on the data padd. "As I stated, since it is not within your usual behavior to be in my cabin it is likely that this is the last place anyone would look for you. It is, therefore, a logical place for you to choose to hide."

"Mr. Spock," Chekov pressed in a blatant challenge. "What would make you think I would want to hide?"

"Empathy."

The Navigator hesitated as he reached for a biscuit."Empathy?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes," the Vulcan confirmed as he continued to work on the data padd. "At times it offers the most logical way to predict the actions of humans. In this situation, if I were human–namely, you, Mr. Chekov," he said as he finally looked up from the data padd to regard the Ensign sedately. "I would want to hide."

"What exactly is it that I need to hide from?" the younger man demanded.

Spock raised an eyebrow, and Chekov got the distinct impression that the man was perturbed at the depth of the Ensign's apparent stupidity. "The crew."

Chekov balked, but by the time he had a retort the Science Officer was gone. He sat there seething for a few minutes but Spock never reappeared.

He gave in to his solitude finally, deciding to make use of his time by filling one of the porcelain cups from the matching tea pot. The brew was so strong that it looked like coffee–which was exactly the way he liked it. Taking several of the biscuits into cloth napkin on his lap, he sat back with his tea and set his shoulders with determination, waiting defiantly for Spock to reappear.

It was a fruitless wait. He sat there so long he realized anyone else would have come to think they'd been dismissed. Chekov knew he would have sensed it if he were, however: Spock did not want, nor expect him, to leave.

The Navigator's resolve slowly ebbed away as the heat sank into his hands from the tea cup. The warmth spread across his chest as he drank it and he started to feel comfortable–and foolish. He began to wonder why, in fact, he was there. He couldn't remember what–if anything–he wanted to talk to Spock about. Chekov eventually refilled the tea cup.

"I don't think I ever pictured you as someone who could set a tea," he said. Although he was still alone in the room he wasn't surprised when Spock answered him.

"My mother is English. It is she who baked the tea biscuits."

The Navigator scowled and snapped one of the cookies in half. "That means you're English, Mr. Spock."

"I am Vulcan, Ensign."

"The human part of you," he maintained irritably. "The human part of you is English."

"I am Vulcan, Ensign."

Chekov chewed in silent resolve on the cookie, knowing that he'd never considered that Spock might have been treated to such decadent confections as a child. It was apparent that the First Officer's hearing, if nothing else, was Vulcan. "How long exactly is it that I am hiding for?"

"That would depend on a number of variable factors, including your intelligence, the depth of your stubborness and the scope of your passionate emotions."

Being alone, the Navigator allowed himself an indiscreet roll of the eyes. "I'm sure you've arrived at an estimation, given the amount of thought you've obviously put into this."

"Yes, Ensign: I have."

"And how long do you predict that I will be hiding here?"

"Despite my understanding of your situation, I must inform you that I do not desire a roommate, Mr. Chekov."

The Navigator glanced sharply at the room divider separating them, but he said nothing. Although he was irked by the man's words he also knew that he was right. Had Chekov actually been hiding there wouldn't be a predictable end to the ploy. He fell silent again, drinking more tea and eating more cookies.

He began to wonder if Spock was going to journal the entire time he was there. That's what the Science Officer was doing: not working on some scientific problem, but journaling. Chekov somehow knew it as clearly as he knew his own name. He also knew that it must have been something the man's human mother encouraged. Logs were specific, data orientated. Writing a journal encouraged you to explore what was going on in your mind, what you were feeling... The Navigator imagined what was being written down on the padd with his sense of fatalistic irony. _"Mr. Chekov is still sitting in my cabin for no good reason, eating my cookies, drinking up the last of my mother's tea and preventing me from actually doing something useful with my extremely valuable and limited time..."_

"Ribbitt."

Chekov froze, a cookie poised to be bitten at his lips.

"Ribbitt."

He lowered the cookie this time, twisting his head around, craning to see the man in the other room. "Sir, did you just..."

The First Officer appeared at the room divider, hands folded sedately behind his back and steady gaze fixed on the younger man.

The eyes were raw, blatant and unforgiving. Logic didn't allow any pretense of civility and whether Chekov knew what the man was thinking because of some telepathic sense or simply because he was good at reading people's eyes didn't matter. He heard the word again, silently: ... _ribbitt... _

The tea cup in his hand shuddered and he got rid of the thing quickly, using it as an excuse to avert his eyes. It wasn't reasonable that Chekov would know why the man would say such an odd thing. Spock had known that he would, however, and he'd been waiting patiently to say it. The journaling had only been a distraction while he was waiting for the wildly emotional Russian to become a reasonable being again.

"I'm nobody," the First Officer stated. "Who are you?"

Chekov didn't turn to look at the older man: his familiar stance was etched there in his peripheral vision. It didn't give him the sense of all being right in the world as it usually did. This time it was a request, a directive.

"I'm nobody too," came his answer finally, his soft voice catching and stumbling over the words. He cleared his throat and took control of the raw, open thing that was his soul, finally forcing himself to look up and meet the Vulcan's gaze.

"Then there's two of us," Spock continued: his familiar, even pitch making the phrase sound warm.

Chekov smiled slightly as the man moved over to take the seat across the desk from him. He couldn't help it. There was so many other ways Spock could have broached the subject than to rely on the Navigator knowing a centuries old American poem. In fact, it was so unlike him not to tackle it directly that the young man knew that the stalwart Vulcan hadn't searched for an appropriate reference in the computer banks. Spock had known that poem already. It touched him personally and when he quoted _"Then there's two of us"_ he had actually meant it.

"My father was a prominent Ambassador with ties to the royal family. My mother was human," Spock confirmed what Chekov was thinking. "It was impossible to be nobody while I was on Vulcan."

The Navigator returned the nod and picked up his cup of tea again. He didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. Having the ship's First Officer reveal something so personal to him–to anybody–was as common and as likely as an unexpected supernova. It had the same effect on Chekov as that event would have had. Spock simply didn't talk about himself. He didn't talk about his family. He certainly didn't talk about his personal life.

Clearing his throat, Chekov looked up at the man to find him staring at him. He was waiting again. Waiting while the Navigator's thought processes reached their logical conclusion. The Vulcan wasn't the only one on the ship who guarded his personal background.

"I didn't go to space to be nobody," he informed Spock.

"If you had it would not be unacceptable."

"You don't go looking for something that you don't know exists, Mr. Spock." Chekov took another cookie but he didn't eat it. He simply held it, staring at it as he dragged his fingernail over it and sent crumbs tumbling into his lap. "Captain Kirk's father was a well-known captain. I've often thought that while he was at Starfleet functions, around Fleet personnel, he must have experienced the same thing as a child."

"It was not the same thing, Ensign."

Chekov _wanted_ Spock to think it was the same thing. He wanted the First Officer to be like everyone else and drop the subject, thinking he understood the incomprehensible. The fact was, Spock did understand.

"No, it wasn't the same thing," the Navigator agreed. "When I was in Russia everyone knew me wherever I went. Political leaders, shopkeepers, school children: they all wanted to meet me, take my picture. My father says that I learned to smile for cameras before I learned to talk." He stopped, shifting uncomfortably at how egotistical he sounded. Chekov realized he had never said this aloud: even Sulu had _seen_ it rather than _heard_ about it. He took a moment to drink his tea.

"I didn't know–never even imagined–that any other life was possible until I went to the Academy. For the first time I wasn't recognized by everyone, I didn't have to be 'on' all the time. I could..." his voice drifted off. "Relax."

Chekov waited for an equivalent anecdote, even though he knew one wouldn't be coming. Spock had revealed as much as he needed to illustrate that he understood: nothing more.

"Posting to the _Enterprise_ was literally beaming to another world," the Navigator continued. "No one recognizes me here except the people from Russia, and there's little chance of running into anyone unexpectedly. After a few weeks on board I realized I was doing something I'd never actually done before." Chekov shifted his eyes to his companion again and gave a rueful smile. "I was breathing. Mr. Spock, I don't remember ever breathing before I posted to this ship."

The First Officer inclined his head in a single nod of understanding. "I have noted that individuals in many species crave such notoriety: they desire to be known by all those they meet. It is especially prevalent in the human species. I believe it gives them the illusion of being immortal."

Chuckling, the Ensign shook his head dismally. "And here I'm grateful that Pavel Andrieivich is dead. I _like_ being Pavel Chekov. Sulu once told me 'no one smiles all the time': I told him 'Pavel Andrieivich does.'" He met Spock's gaze. "I don't suppose that was an issue on Vulcan for you."

"No, it was not."

The Navigator sighed again. "No one in Russia even knows my family name. I'm just 'Pavel, Andrie's son'."

"What name you choose to identify yourself with is immaterial. You shall always be Andrie's son, Ensign. That shaped who you are."

Chekov could hardly argue with Spock's logic. Throughout his entire life most people that met him assumed they knew him already. The ones that showed any interest in getting to know Pavel any better than they already did usually were only hoping to claim his friendship as a trophy. He had learned to be friendly to people and still not let them near him. If you wanted to be Chekov's friend you had to work to get to know him: work hard at it for a long time. He didn't consider it a noble quality he had, but it was the truth. He had simply become used to being known by those he met...and known only as Andrie's son.

"How dreary to be somebody," Spock said aloud as Chekov's thoughts trailed off.

The younger man sighed slightly and dutifully finished the poem. "How public, like a frog, to tell your name the livelong day to the admiring bog." He twisted his mouth up ruefully. "Ribbitt."

The Commander picked up a cookie and began eating it, which struck Chekov as an odd sight. Not as odd as the image of the man at high tea that appeared in his mind, nor as uncomfortable as the reason why Spock had chosen now to broach the subject of the Navigator's family.

"It is a logical choice for you to hide from the crew's initial reaction to your misrepresentation of your background," Spock said. "They will be more amenable given time."

The Navigator dropped his tea cup on the desk in irritation and scowled at him. "I didn't lie to anyone."

"Mr. Chekov, you led the people on this ship to believe that you grew up in a rural peasant village..."

"I did!" he retorted.

Spock continued as if he hadn't spoken. "With parents that were file clerks in the dusty basement of an anonymous government office."

"They know we traveled," Chekov insisted, squirming in his chair. "I didn't lie!" he spat out again.

Spock's eyebrow raised, but Chekov didn't reward him with the further speech he was trying to evoke. "Your father is one of the top government officials in the Russian Federation. They have erected a statue in his honor."

"He made them take it down," the Navigator muttered irritably. He didn't have illusion that it would interrupt the Commander's speech, however.

"Humans will interpret the misrepresentation as betrayal, Mr. Chekov. Humans do no react well to betrayal," he concluded.

"This wouldn't be a problem if Avdevyev and the others hadn't announced it to the whole dining hall," Chekov insisted with a bitter snarl. "They broke their promise!"

The Ensign saw Spock visibly hesitate instead of speaking. His eyebrows raised slowly as he cocked his head and regarded the younger man. "The crew is under the impression that your relationship with the other Russian citizens on board is a type of social club."

Chekov squirmed again and fixed his eyes on his empty tea cup.

"Knowing they would recognize you, you have bonded them into silence to maintain your status as a nobody on this ship."

"I wouldn't word it quite like that," the Navigator muttered.

Spock leaned forward, leaning his elbows on the chair arms and clasping his hands together in front of him. "Ensign, I was unaware of the events you reference that occurred in the dining hall: and I believe those events are irrelevant. The crew will have already discovered the truth about your family background simple because you were very close to your father."

"I still _am_," Chekov said, perturbed. "What does that matter?"

"You spent a great deal of your time with him while in Russia. You traveled with him wherever he went. You even accompanied him to work on many occasions."

"I still don't see how that's related to the crew finding out that he's my father."

Spock raised his eyebrows, again giving the Navigator the impression that he was astounded by the depths of the younger man's stupidity. "You are in ninety eight point six percent of the stock footage being shown in relation to this news story."

Chekov froze into stone. "Ninety eight percent?"

"Ninety eight point six."

He shifted and pulled the corner of his lip into his mouth to chew on it. "That's a lot, Mr. Spock."

"That figure is based on the news reports that I had time to review. It is inaccurate for the entire data pool available, but the crew knows, Mr. Chekov," Spock concluded. "They know."

The Science Officer was right, Chekov considered. Hiding was a logical course of action given the present circumstances.

"I can't stay here forever."

"I do not have that much tea," Spock confirmed. After a moment, he continued: "I was, however, in error in this instance. Ensign, you did not overestimate the gravity of what you did nor the scope of the problem it has caused. Your father is an extraordinary man, however, and will no doubt prosper whatever the outcome may be."

"I didn't realize you knew him, Mr. Spock."

The First Officer gave Chekov another look which seemed to be reevaluating his estimation of the younger man's intelligence. "I know the man his son has become," he stated.

Chekov's eyes widened and he sat back, regarding the man with blatant amusement.

Spock responded by giving him a unnerving stare. "Mr. Chekov, you were raised in what is quite possibly the worst circumstances for even adequate human personality development. Even in these adverse conditions your father provided you with a sense of stability, moral accountability, social obligation, social etiquette, and strong ties to both family and community. Andrie ensured that you had a valid self image and taught you to take responsibility for your actions."

Silently, the Navigator sat returning the older man's stare. The litany about his own character did little more than irritate him, but he didn't fail to notice the statement the First Officer had chosen to end it with. He shifted his jaw. "Mr. Spock, are you saying you that you've decided what I should do about my father's situation?"

Spock straightened. "No. I am saying that while you were growing up your father to care to provide you with everything you needed."

Somberly, the younger man nodded agreement. "Except one thing."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "What was it that you were lacking, Ensign?"

Chekov bit into another one of the tea biscuits. "A mother who could cook, Sir."


	5. Chapter 5

The Captain of the _Enterprise_ grabbed the nearest bottle of Saurian Brandy and filled two glasses. He emptied one, then immediately refilled it.

"Don't give up your day job," he advised as the door to his cabin closed. Turning, he shook his head at the Doctor."You make a lousy spy."

"If you knew I was following you," McCoy rasped. "Why didn't you slow down?"

Kirk shrugged. "I thought you could use the exercise." Juggling both the bottle and the two glasses, he made his way over to the desk and managed to set them down without breaking anything.

"I'm not inviting you to join me," he said as he took a seat. "But I know you're going to anyway."

McCoy glared at the Captain but the man just sat there, sipping his brandy without having the decency to notice it. With a pronounced huff, he relented and sat down in the other chair.

Kirk eyes were still focused on his drink, but he could see McCoy as he irritably twisted the glass in his hands. "You're going to bruise the brandy, Bones."

"Jim," the man replied stiffly. "This business with Chekov's father...it's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"They tend to take high treason pretty seriously."

"They don't execute you for it anymore," McCoy said, but there was a question in his voice.

"No, of course not." Kirk had trouble picturing Andrie Chekov in a penal colony for the rest of his life, however. A soft-spoken, gentle and warm man with kind eyes; it was hard not to like him immediately. Andrie also had a way of listening to people with such intense attention that it was moving.

_On the other hand... _The Captain leaned back, stretched out his legs, and mulled over the charges that the man faced. Andrie Chekov was known to be an immovable force when he made up his mind about anything; government leaders feared to dispute him. In addition, Andrie's innate charisma overpowered individuals and groups enmasse when he spoke. His tenor voice was mesmerizing and he could make you believe the folktales he collected despite everything your reason told you. He could make you believe anything.

What's more, the man had power.

"Bones," Kirk ventured. "I know Chekov talks to you. Did he ever tell _you_ his father was the founder and Commander In Chief of the New Imperial Russian Navy?"

"Can't say that it ever came up," McCoy responded. Swirling the brandy in his glass, his blue eyes narrowed with interest. "Do I detect a note of resentment, Captain?"

"That Chekov didn't tell me his father was the most beloved man in the Russian Federation: a man who is revered all over Earth? No," Kirk stated bluntly. "He had no reason to: it was never an issue that affected this ship's functioning." The Captain had no doubt that Chekov would have volunteered the information instantly had it ever mattered. Kirk had never resented not being told, but he had been embarrassed by his own ignorance when he and McCoy encountered Andrie on a mission that Chekov still didn't know about and which Andrie wouldn't remember.

The Captain had met the man before that; twice if you counted the two minute introduction Chekov had made in passing at the Starfleet headquarters station in San Francisco. By that time it had become common knowledge that the Navigator had served briefly in the Russian Navy before joining Starfleet, and he had only introduced the Admiral that came to greet him as the man he'd served under.

Chekov had again failed to mention the man was any relation to him when the_ Enterprise _had rescued Andrie and his crew after a space cruiser accident had marooned them. It had taken an entire week to shuttle them to safety and there had been not one mention of it: not by anyone. "The crew is going to be resentful," the Captain concluded out loud.

"Would they be less resentful if he'd told everyone about it?" McCoy asked pointedly. He crossed his legs, accentuating the offensive tilt he set his shoulders into. "If he'd told them they'd think he was bragging and trying to get favors. Since he didn't mention it he was hiding it...and probably thinking he was better than the rest of us." He took a sip of his brandy and made a gesture of futility. "It's a no-win situation as far as public opinion is concerned, Jim."

Kirk made a noise of derision. "Chekov didn't just not mention it, Bones: the man was _here _on the _Enterprise_. The entire crew fell in love with him." Maybe, he thought, it wouldn't have seemed so devious if everyone involved hadn't gone to such apparent lengths to avoid calling the man by his family name. A frown burrowed across Kirk's forehead. Actually, he had never heard the Admiral called by his family name: not even on the news.

"Why isn't he ever called Admiral Andrie Chekov?" he mused out loud.

"He uses his patronymic instead: Andrie Nikolaievich," McCoy answered. "It's a common practice in Russia."

Kirk hesitated and he turned an oddly curious look on his companion at his use of the word 'patronymic'. "Not in formal situations," he explained, then flashed a smirk at his friend. "That would be like me introducing myself to a Klingon as 'Captain Jimmy'."

"I don't think Andrie's ever met any Klingons," McCoy replied tartly.

"Good point."

Kirk savored the last of his brandy a moment. The Doctor had seemed vaguely uncomfortable with the information that patronymics were only used among friends in Russia, and he wondered how personal his chats with Chekov had become. He leaned forward on the desk, slowly rolling the empty brandy glass between his palms. "Bones," he asked. "Did you know that Chekov wasn't Russian?"

The Doctor stilled, his steel blue eyes drawing up to fix on Kirk. "Jim," he said after a moment. "Assuming every citizen of the Russian Federation is Russian is like assuming every US citizen is Texan. Just because it has the largest land mass doesn't mean everyone from the country was born there."

Kirk pressed his lips together, not surprised that McCoy knew, or his attempt to gloss over it. He straightened and reached for the bottle to refill his glass. "Do you know where Chekov was born?"

"Texas."

The Captain nearly dropped the bottle of brandy.

"That's what he told me when I asked him," the man continued into his glass, eyes averted.

"He was joking." Kirk maintained as he set the bottle down. He hesitated. "Wasn't he?"

"Who can tell with Chekov?"

Sitting back with a still empty glass, the Captain shook his head in mute futility. McCoy had a point. The better you came to know their Chief Navigator the more you discovered that his oddest "jokes" were often true. The were _so_ odd, and he delivered them _so_ well with his guilty grin, it was just impossible to believe them.

"Jim, I honestly don't know," the Doctor said. "His parents traveled all the time and Chekov was born prematurely. I suppose he could have been born just about anywhere."

Kirk took a moment to refill his glass, then McCoy's as the man continued speaking. "Face it: with his father's position and the amount they traveled, Chekov is probably on a first name basis with every government leader on Earth."

The sick, rotting feeling that had been lingering in his gut took on a life of its own and the Captain leaned back, folding his leg across his knee as he sipped his brandy. Chekov had an innate gift for making people like him: he knew of no one that didn't take to him instantly. He was like his father that way–and like his father he seemed to inspire a stubborn, instinctive loyalty from the people that knew him._ Blind_ loyalty, Kirk redefined: as in what the Russians had shown him in the dining room.

"Bones," he asked deliberately as he lowered his glass to rest on his upturned knee. "Do you have any idea how the Russian Navy operates?"

McCoy's eyes flashed irritably. "Yes: they collect, preserve, and teach Earth's folk and maritime histories. I've heard about it a few times...from _someone_."

Rueful guilt touched the Captain's features momentarily. McCoy hadn't heard it from Chekov: the Ensign didn't talk about his time spent in the Navy with any greater frequency than he spoke about the rest of his personal life. Kirk had earned his friend's tone because he, himself, had regaled the Doctor with countless romantic tales of how Andrie had sent traditional sailing ships gloriously back into Earth's oceans as a living history museum. The New Imperial Russian Navy had captured James Kirk's imagination from the moment of it's inception.

He sighed heavily. "That's true," the Captain acknowledged. "But I'm talking about the actual organization of the Navy here: the nuts an bolts of how it operates."

"I don't even understand how Starfleet operates," McCoy rasped with a scowl. "And why is that important?"

Staring at his glass, Kirk twisted it impotently and nursed the aching rot in his gut. "It's important," he drew out deliberately, "because the Russian Navy is in complete control of the Earth's maritime history. Every historic wooden vessel and tall ship that still exists has been documented, restored, and is maintained by the Russian Navy; and they run all the maritime museums."

McCoy looked downright annoyed. He leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk, blue eyes steady on his friend's troubled face. "This was one of the reasons you liked what the Navy has done, Jim. Now it's a problem?"

Kirk made a rueful almost-noise. "Bones, the Russian Navy provides the expertise and the manpower, but the country that owns the ship or the museum is responsible for funding the projects: they even pay the salaries of the sailors involved. And..." he added heavily, "the planetary government of the United Earth Alliance funds the navy too."

The Doctor's steel blue eyes dimmed in immediate understanding. "Andrie Chekov has access to funds from _every_ country on Earth–including the planetary government?"

"Yes," Kirk confirmed soberly. "If Andrie has been syphoning money..it isn't just out of the Russian Federation. The investigators have got to be going through government accounts on a planetary scale. The Earth must be a madhouse right now."

McCoy seemed unimpressed. "Andrie can't have unlimited and sole access to all these accounts: surely there are other people monitoring them."

"Bones, if there were, they would have noticed the disappearing funds years ago." Kirk reached for the bottle again, but his hand hesitated on it's neck. "That's not even the full scope of this issue," he continued. "If Andrie has been stealing, why would he limit it to obvious fund's transfers? He's the one who determines how much a government is to pay for every line item: who's to know how much it actually costs to replace a mainmast?"

The Doctor sat back heavily in his chair, regarding Kirk dimly."Who's the idiot that set up this system without checks and balances?"

Kirk realized his glass was still full and let his hand slip down off the bottle. "Andrie."

The word lay strident on the silence between them.

"This is limited to Earth, isn't it?"

"Yes," the Captain acknowledged. "The one time they ventured into space it was a cultural exchange. _And after being marooned, I don't think Andrie is ever going back..._

Kirk sat silently, hazel eyes on his glass, and appeared transfixed by the subtle movement of the amber colored liquid within it.

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "Jim?" he pressed with an alarmed edge to his voice.

Oddly, the twisting of the liquid mirrored exactly the twisting of the festering thing within him. He didn't bother to raise his eyes to his companion. "It gets worse. Andrie Nikolaievich is also the President of the Russian National Historic Districts. He fought to establish _both _the New Imperial Russian Navy and the Russian National Historic Districts and after they had..." he was bogged down a moment with the enormity of it all. "The government never wanted anything to do with either of them and they just leave it all in Andrie's hands. The possibilities open for theft is mind-boggling."

"What kind of money do people living like 19th century peasants have to steal?" the Doctor asked irritably.

Kirk finally raised his eyes back to his companion, almost an apology in them. "Bones, I'm just saying..."

"I know what you're saying!" McCoy retorted irascibly. "What I want to know is why the Russian Federation's government would set up a navy and a...virtual _country_...without putting some kind of actual organization in place that would make the man running them anything but an autocrat!"

_Because Andrie Nikolaievich is an immovable force of nature..._ is what the Captain thought again. The man's starched white, antique navy uniform made him look like a tsar reincarnate, which only heightened the fact that Andrie was an impenetrable wall when he had decided on a course. There were very few people who even bothered to try to dispute him any longer.

"It's not a _real _navy, Bones," is what Kirk said aloud. "There aren't any real navies on Earth anymore: there's no need for them. It's a museum, as are the historic districts: which is why they are both under the Ministry of Culture. Frankly, the Russian government thought they were stupid ideas when Andrie proposed them."

"Well, they don't seem to have any problem taking credit for them now that they're renowned throughout the galaxy, do they?"

The Captain went back to sipping his brandy, thinking he had more immediate concerns than a debate about political ethics.

"Jim," McCoy rasped. "You do realize they've _actually_ made Andrie a Tsar, don't you?"

Kirk froze, then twisted to give him a rude look.

"Andrie's established complete control over two vast empires and no one else on Earth has a clue what's going on in them. He's become a Tsar," McCoy repeated. "And no one even noticed."

It was a difficult line of reasoning to argue with. Kirk pursed his lips, troubled once again by McCoy's flawless ability to clearly see things that no one else began to suspect. Andrie Nikolaievich did possess a stunning amount of power and the people around him hadn't even begun to seemed to notice him acquiring it. They had, in fact, lauded him for it. Andrie had been showered with vast amounts of thunderous awards in his lifetime: prizes in a wide variety of fields from the entire scope of the governments on Earth. The man steadfastly refused to accept them in person–but each of them was delivered with a sizeable amount of funds added to his personal accounts.

The Captain lowered his glass, wishing the revelation did anything but make the nagging weight within him more heavy. "I don't think Andrie engineered this scheme or stole any money," Kirk pronounced. Despite the frightening vulnerability in the Earth's political organization that the investigation exposed, the Captain had his own reasons for agreeing with the viewpoint of the _Enterprise_'s Russian citizens. "I don't even believe Andrie is capable of it."

McCoy's mouth twitched. "Given the right circumstances, every human being is capable of anything."

Kirk shook his head resolutely. He may have disagreed with the Doctor on a fundamental philosophical basis on any other day, but in this case he had specific arguments with the man's statement. Twisting around in his seat, he leaned forward onto the desk and rolled the glass between his palms, searching for the right words to explain the vague feelings he'd had about Andrie since the man spent the week aboard his ship.

"I don't think Andrie has the knowledge to pull anything even remotely similar to this off." There was something vaguely...simple...about the man. Although Andrie had a photographic memory and produced doctorate-level books at an astounding rate, he met Kirk's explanation of the technology on his ship with a childlike wonder, marveling at each new room with a simple honesty that made the Captain see his ship as though it was the first time. He'd prolonged the tour, having got caught up in looking at everything without processing information but with the wonder of a two year old seeing his first rocket launch into the night.

"I don't thing he _could_ have done it," Kirk repeated. "He doesn't strike me as having the technical know-how."

McCoy sat there still, meeting Kirk's level gaze for a long moment. Without saying a word, he simply leaned forward and refilled his glass of brandy.

"This man–that government leaders fear to cross," the Captain pressed on, "Was startled and..._baffled_...by the operation of the replicator when I got him something to eat. When I handed him a book on a datapadd," he insisted, "Bones, he acted like...like I was handing him a poisonous snake!

"As farfetched as this sounds," Kirk concluded, "I don't think Andrie even _uses _computers."

The Doctor made no move to speak, and in fact didn't appear to have when he did. "That's a definite possibility."

Kirk straightened, his eyes widening with the type of wonder he credited Andrie with. "Bones, how is that even _possible_ at the end of the 23rd century?"

"We still have a real, physical world around us!" McCoy replied with annoyance. "You can purchase actual books, cook real food on a stove, buy cloth and make clothes..."

"You can't buy anything without using a computer!"

"It doesn't take a computer genius to produce an id card for payment," he insisted in return. "And besides, if Andrie came into _your_ store for a sandwich, would _you_ make him pay for it? Jim..." he hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I think the man's an absent-minded professor."

Pressing his lips hard together, Kirk successfully restrained his amusement. "Is that your medical diagnosis, Doctor?"

McCoy seemed unimpressed by the effort. "It's as close as you're going to get to one," he retorted. "We've long since moved beyond idiotic labels that classify and pigeonhole human beings and rate them on who's better. The fact of the matter is that everyone has their own skills and strengths; and everyone learns and interacts with the world in their own unique way.

"Jim," he continued, "there are people who's brains are so filled with the universe's big issues that they just can't focus on meaningless little things like changing their clothes or figuring out how to interact with a computer. _Einstein_ used to get lost when he went to his own barber!"

"Well, that explains his hairstyle."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed in annoyance.

Kirk shrugged ruefully, acknowledging that his quip fell light-years short of humorous. He didn't doubt the Doctor's diagnosis–if that what it was. During long-term exposure to Andrie one began to notice the subtle prods of the people around him regarding the state of his appearance: they had clearly made it part of their routine lives to maintain the public image of the Admiral in his crisp, starched white uniform.

McCoy squirmed tersely in his chair again. While he could have been concerned with breaching medical confidentiality, Andrie was not his patient and it was breaching Chekov's friendship Kirk knew he was uncomfortable with. The Doctor picked up his glass and drained it before using it to gesture. "Spock could trace the smallest piece of information in a computer, but he couldn't relate a fiction story to you to save his life. Andrie has a gift for oral history that makes you feel like you're living the stories yourself. The fact that he prefers to read hard copy books rather than stare at them on a computer monitor doesn't make him a freak!"

"No," the Captain bit out. "But it _does_ make him incapable of doing what he's been charged with."

The clear pronouncement seemed to take McCoy by surprise. "Well, so, we don't have a problem here: Andrie didn't do it."

Kirk stood abruptly, forced to his feet by the rot that finally took over: unwilling to be a nagging concern anymore. It propelled him away, pacing in an attempt to escape the sheer weight of the thing. "No, it's still a problem because _someone _did it."

"Than let _that_ person rot in jail," McCoy answered quickly.

A deep, low threatening sound of frustration emerged from the Captain's throat and he ground his jaw into stone as if the action would banish the thoughts from his brain. The fact was, he didn't want McCoy here because he hadn't wanted to reach this place, and he knew he wouldn't have by himself. Without the Doctor to hash out his thoughts, the rotting sensation may have stayed buried...a nagging that never took form. But McCoy had pursued him...

And here it was.

"The Russian Navy obviously operates in the twenty-third century using the same computer interfaces every business does, or we wouldn't have this problem," Kirk bit out tightly. "_Someone _has to have set up those accounts and be doing the accounting and record keeping. Someone who's framed Andrie...and who he's protecting."

McCoy looked troubled. "Why? Just to hide the Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy's lack of computer skills? That's preposterous!"

Kirk spun back toward the Doctor, then froze, re-taking control of his own body and emotions. He straightened; let his breath become tight, a controlled extension of his thought process. "No," the Captain said in a death tone. "Andrie is protecting this person for more important reasons to him." He took several short, deliberate steps back toward the Doctor.

"Bones, the person who did this diverted those funds without being noticed for over a decade and left untraceable, clean, dead ends. They'd have to be a computer genius and be very good at underhanded schemes." Kirk took a moment to punctuate the air with a tight, defined hand gesture. "This person has not only Andrie's complete trust, but the total access that Andrie has to all his accounts."

The Doctor's face went white and he stood abruptly, the chair smashing into the deck behind him. "Jim, you can't possibly be thinking it was Chekov!"

Kirk lowered his hand to his side and set his shoulders. "You did."

The two stood there in silence, locked in a death-like stare inspired not by confrontation, but by the enormous weight of their mutual thoughts. Despite his inexperience, Chekov was the person on the ship who's skills with the computers and science station came closest to Spock's. He had a Doctorate in navigation and his papers were already required course material at the Academy. With an innate gift for mathematics and spatial relations, Chekov's skills translated brilliantly across the fields of science, computers, navigation, music and finances.

Finally, the Doctor's jaw shifted and he glanced away uncomfortably.

Kirk sighed then and made his feet move back toward the desk. "Bones," he drew out soberly. "Chekov has the expertise and we both know he has the access." The Navigator had, in fact, used such access to indulge sudden flights of sheer whimsy when he was bored. Chekov was probably the only one who found it funny when the Russian government's salary fund for its President seemingly vanished into thin air. The Captain could not begin to imagine the terror which held the Russian government as each April Fool's Day approached, and the fact that Chekov's access had not been removed because of such repeated stunts meant that someone needed him to have it.

McCoy stood there uncomfortably, the conflicted emotions within him playing gruesomely with the muscles on his face as he watched the Captain sit back down.

Kirk leaned heavily on the desk, hands finding the glass still there for lack of better things to do. He stared at the liquid hollowly, tapping his finger on the edge of the glass absently. "Chekov always has an unlimited amount of funds," Kirk reminded McCoy quietly. "Breathtakingly unlimited."

"He's generous to a fault," McCoy maintained stiffly.

Kirk didn't answer immediately, waiting for the Doctor to right his chair and take a seat with a defiant stance. "It's easy to be generous when it's not your money." Chekov claimed his abundant funds were the result of the salary he received while in the navy–which he earned at a point in his life when he had no expenses. With his spending habits, however, that nest egg should have disappeared long ago.

"That was uncalled for."

The Captain watched as McCoy jammed his arms across his chest and averted his eyes, letting them bore into the deck. The Doctor clearly felt a loyalty to Chekov and Kirk watched the difficulty he was having with that wash over his face.

"When are you going to tell them?" he asked thinly.

Kirk shifted his jaw. "Never." At his companion's furtive glance, the Captain shrugged slightly. "I don't have any proof. And any legal actions back on Earth have nothing to do with the functioning of my ship."

_Shouldn't__ have anything to do with functioning of my ship..._

The Doctor nodded tersely and drew his eyes back to the floor.

With a barely audible sigh, Kirk leaned back in the chair and tentatively stretched out his legs. He knew, by McCoy's behavior, that they shared the same thoughts.

If it was, indeed, Pavel Chekov who had done this, than it _did_ extend beyond Earth...it had invaded Kirk's ship. For those that paid attention, they had seen that the Navigator's generosity had it's limits. When he had gotten tired of constantly giving Sulu money because he managed to go through his salary in a breathtaking roar, Chekov had taken over complete control of the Lieutenant's funds. Kirk didn't know exactly how the accounts were set up, but he knew that Sulu had to beg Chekov for money to buy things like birthday presents. He also knew that Reilly had followed suit soon after...and there were bound to be more crewman that had done the same.

People trusted Chekov. Like his father, he had a natural charisma that made people like him and follow his lead without question. _People like the group of Russian citizens he had formed together...for what purpose?_ McCoy's words haunted the Captain. _'He's become a tsar, and nobody noticed...'_

"Chekov is not stealing from his shipmates," the Doctor maintained stoically.

Kirk drew his lips into a fine line and didn't answer him. After a moment, he observed: "We have a more immediate problem."

"What's that?" McCoy asked.

Hazel eyes shifted to him dubiously. "We're out of brandy."


End file.
